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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26993203">Opalescence</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/GTRWTW/pseuds/GTRWTW'>GTRWTW</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Birthday, Canon Compliant, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Troubled Blood, Sex, Smut, Troubled Blood Spoilers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 23:46:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,661</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26993203</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/GTRWTW/pseuds/GTRWTW</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>*** Updated: I had intended for this to be finished, but I couldn't resist adding to it. So here are some more chapters! ***</p><p>This is my first go at a fanfic! Suggestions/comments very welcome. I'm struggling a bit with formatting so apologies if it looks a bit off.</p><p>This is what I imagine the first few chapters of book 6 could be like, if of course they became significantly more adult!</p><p>Notes at the end. I hope you enjoy!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Robin Ellacott &amp; Cormoran Strike, Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>75</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>137</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Birthday</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Chapter 1</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Now lies the Earth all Danae to the stars,</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>And all thy heart lies open unto me.</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alfred Lord Tennyson, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Now Sleeps The Crimson Petal</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Strike handed over his American Express, ignoring the faint double take when the barman noticed the name 'Cormoran Strike' on the card. He'd chosen to visit the bar rather than wait for table service, hoping for a quicker turnaround, but this scrutiny was making him regret the decision. The barman's eyes performed the now familiar glance down towards Strike's lower leg, which had clanged against a high brass bar stool as the detective leaned over to place his order. Sighing inwardly, Strike took his prize, a bottle of Moet &amp; Chandon pink champagne, lamenting that he would now hardly ever go anywhere without being recognised, famous and visually distinctive as he was. Nevertheless, he was determined not to argue with, insult, or punch anyone today; it was Robin Ellacott's thirtieth birthday, and Strike had some making up to do.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He knew that his efforts on her previous birthdays had been below par; she had instructed him, helpfully, never to buy her flowers again, after she had screamed her dissatisfaction at the way he treated her for her entire street to hear. He had resented this at the time, but had since come to realise that she was, as usual, completely right. In any case, he had finally admitted to himself that he wanted to impress her, and so flowers and chocolates would no longer do. Before, they had been generous but completely impersonal tokens, gifted to her as society dictated he must: she was a woman, and it was her birthday, and thus he must buy her flowers and chocolates.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But that was before: before the exhilarating release of a delicate thread between them that hinted at the possibility of romance. That night had changed everything; it had engendered hope. Strike had lain awake several nights since, picturing the look on Robin's face when he had told her that she was his best friend, and muttering vicious insults at Barclay for having interrupted them. He knew that Robin would remember the night too, and he had the burning hope that she remembered it fondly. Unfortunately, it was the same night that he had elbowed her so hard in the face that he had given her two black eyes and an ugly blue stain across her forehead for over a week. That it was an accident did little to assuage Strike's guilt. He had behaved rashly, and recklessly: the traits of which he often accused Robin, when she became determined to handle dangerous situations herself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Overall, he knew he had treated her badly. And yet here she sat, in the Ritz on the evening of her thirtieth, beaming at him as he returned to their table and began to unwrap the foil on the champagne bottle. He felt a slight giddiness that he couldn't attribute to the flute of champagne that had been included with the exorbitant booking fee, and which he had downed in one mouthful before ordering them a further bottle. She was here, she was his best friend, and she was radiant. Hope continued to burn away in his chest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin was experiencing the simple, but this year unexpected, pleasure of it being her birthday. She felt as though she and Strike were sitting in a pearlescent bubble, through which the rest of the elegant bar was beautiful but distant. She was delighted that he had finally made an effort for her, and pleasantly surprised at the sheer amount of thought that had gone into today. Everything he had done harked back to something she'd said, a comment she'd made; it showed her that he had been paying attention, and made her wonder why he had previously stuck to trite, conventional gestures. She thought she knew, and yet she was afraid of getting ahead of herself. All she had evidence of was that he saw her as a friend. The rest she had interpreted, rightly or wrongly, from things she thought she had seen in his eyes when he looked at her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike finished pouring the champagne, and Robin knew she had been staring at him. She cleared her throat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What will we drink to?" Robin asked, smiling when Strike looked at her incredulously. "My birthday's too obvious."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Well then," replied Strike as he sat down, shifting his stool slightly so that he was closer to her, rather than directly across their circular table. "Why don't we drink to another closed case? We're being called the best detective agency in London. I'm starting to think we should frame some of these press reports for the office, if only to remind Pat that I'm not bloody useless."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"She doesn't think you're useless, she thinks you're grumpy. There's a difference," replied Robin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Well, she's not wasted at a detective agency, with those observation skills," quipped Strike.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You're not!" said Robin, but Strike raised an eyebrow at her, and she laughed loudly. "Well, ok, you are a bit. But that's better than - " She broke off, annoyance clouding her expression. Strike deduced that she was comparing him to other men in the office and, surprisingly, not finding him wanting.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Better than being groped and sent pictures of dicks?" asked Strike, eying her shrewdly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin grinned. "Yes, better than that."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Well, it's good to know that I'm slightly easier to deal with than a sex pest. High praise indeed," he joked, while Robin laughed into her champagne. "I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am</span>
  </em>
  <span> sorry for inflicting Morris on you, though," he added, with real regret.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It's fine. You weren't to know what he was like; you're a man. Anyway I dealt with him, didn't I?" she ventured bravely.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike looked at her with unmistakable pride. "You did, very bloody well too. Remind me not to get on your bad side, Robin Ellacott." He raised his now half finished glass, and toasted her. "To breaking the noses of perverts," he said, in mock seriousness.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin laughed again and clinked her glass against his, draining the rest of her champagne and enjoying the feeling of contentment and belonging that was bubbling up inside her. She felt a fierce pride at his words, and felt grateful to him for acknowledging her competence, even if he was just being kind for her birthday. But she had never known him to provide insincere flattery. His words emboldened her and made her want to give him something back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Thank you, Strike," Robin said quickly, before her daring deserted her. She looked up at Strike's face and then away towards the bar.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"For what?" he replied. He had been enjoying their easy banter, and he was curious at her sudden air of awkwardness.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Well, the champagne. The balloon too, and the perfume, and this…" She gestured vaguely at their surroundings. She wanted to explain that it wasn't the opulence or the extravagance that meant so much to her, but the significance of the place in their memories and the shared joke it represented. She tried again. "I love that you..." But she tailed off, embarrassed at her choice of word. She looked away again, feeling his gaze on her face; then she told herself not to be ridiculous. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You cannot feel a man's gaze. Get a grip on yourself.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Strike was indeed watching her, with a curious and slightly frustrated expression, like she was a puzzle he couldn't quite solve. He had thought that what he had done would make her happy, and it seemed that it did, but it was starting to dawn on him that it was causing other reactions, ones that he had to admit he was rather pleased about. He watched the blush spread across her cheeks, the breath catch in her chest, and her flustered expression when she couldn't find the right words. Were these not the right signs? Could he push things a bit further, amid the pleasurable glow of birthday gifts and champagne? He mustered his courage. For the first time ever, he found looking at her difficult.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Robin, you know why I did this stuff? I'm not an idiot. I'm not going to pretend I always know what women want for their birthdays, but I know you. We spend most of our working lives together and we work most of the hours of the bloody week." He leaned closer, so that their faces were mere inches apart. "I do know that my previous efforts have been lousy. I just didn't want to risk ruining what we've built. But I've realised lately that that doesn't matter to me as much as you being happy." He smiled as he said the words, realising that they were completely true: what we wanted was simple and genuine. "I just really want you to be happy."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin had stopped breathing. She wanted to look away, to give them both a respite from the mutual embarrassment that was solidifying around them, but she couldn't tear her eyes away from his face. Was he actually blushing? Was it possible? She said nothing, and he suddenly looked straight into her eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I want to </span>
  <em>
    <span>make</span>
  </em>
  <span> you happy," he said quietly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin felt as though she had been plunged into a deep, warm bath. She stared at him, drinking in his words and his expression, hoping she had made the right interpretation this time. He wanted to make her happy! Surely this was a declaration that he wanted more than friendship. Wasn't it? He hadn't actually said so. She agonised in her head. Was it safe to tell him how she felt? If she was wrong, she had a lot to lose. She tried to find the words that would test the waters with just enough caution.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike felt mildly sick, but he also felt a strange sense of relief: it was out. No more decisions to make. Yet she still hadn't spoken. When he had taken the plunge, he'd hoped for just the merest glimpse of a positive reaction, but he could see nothing. He'd made a successful career out of eking the truth from recalcitrant witnesses, of seeing the non verbal language that others couldn't see, and yet he was lost. His palms started to sweat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Robin, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. You probably... Such a dickhead," he finished in a mutter to himself. "It wasn't... Forget it, ok?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin sucked in a breath. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Decide.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Cormoran," she whispered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike heard his name spill from her lips like an agonised moan; she had a heated, yearning look on her face. He stared at her for a beat, then reached for her; with one hand at the back of her head, he slowly leaned towards her. His eyes were locked on hers, and she didn't look away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He waited, two seconds. Three. And then she strained towards him, her lips parting, and he sealed his mouth over hers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They had kissed before: small pecks of affection when the mood was particularly light, or friendly. This was a different thing entirely. Strike felt like he was on fire; the kiss was sharp and sweet, and it sent arrows of desire through his body. Robin gripped his forearms like he might blow away, kissing him back with such jubilant fervour that Strike had no idea how he could have doubted her blatant attraction to him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After several minutes they broke apart, panting, Robin looking down at the table while she attempted to steady her breathing. Several people at the tables around them were watching with a sort of dignified humour. Strike ignored them all and touched Robin's lower lip with one gentle thumb, still looking at her as though trying to figure her out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm -" he began.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Sorry? Yeah, right," she replied, looking up at him with a wicked grin that surprised him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No, you're right, I'm not sorry," he agreed ruefully, "about that, anyway. I was going to say I'm an idiot."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin laughed, and Strike felt a frisson of pleasure at the fact of making her laugh. But she looked wary and nervous, as though she were about to find out the results of an exam she had sat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Why are you an idiot?" Robin asked.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike thought about how best to reply. Absently, he ran his fingers lightly over the scar on her forearm, and her answering shiver made him look up. She didn't look like she was in pain; she looked serene. He went with the truth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I've been wanting to do that for a long time. Years. I didn't think you would… well, you're hard to read." He paused, unsure. "But, I don't need to be sorry?" His inflection made it a question.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Cormoran, I… You don't need to be sorry." Tears spilled over onto her cheeks and she brushed them away with the back of her hand, giving a breathless little laugh as she did so. "I've wanted that, too. But I was worried, about ruining things, you know."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike threw his head back and laughed, a bear-like guffaw that made Robin smile. "All this time," he said, shaking his head slowly. He wondered how far to push.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Do you, ah, want to stay?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No!" she answered, beaming. She snatched up her handbag and the little bottle of perfume, and stood. Strike grinned and held out his arm, and felt a furtive pride when she took it without hesitation.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Journey</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>I have spread my dreams under your feet;</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>William Butler Yeats, </span>
  <em>
    <span>He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin allowed Strike to lead her out of the gilded hotel, which would forever remain in her memory as the scene of one of the best moments of her life. She felt elated, terrified; they had done it. They'd both declared their hand, and it seemed that they were more in sync than they had imagined. They walked on, by unspoken agreement, towards Denmark Street.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Whether by coincidence or by design, Robin did not know, but they passed the exact spot on which Matthew had proposed to her, five years previously. She tried to compare her feelings then with her feelings now. She knew that she had felt elated then, perhaps even as much as she did tonight. Everything she had ever thought of wanting had been coming true, and she had had no reason to wish for better; that is, until a scarred, limping man had burst (quite literally, she thought, recalling how he had almost knocked her down the stairs) into her life and given her a reason.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her left arm tucked through Strike's, his arm pressed against her ribcage, Robin wondered whether he could sense her heart pounding. She relived the kiss over and over in her mind; it had felt new and familiar all at once. She had felt a wave of comfort and safety in the way his hand cradled her head, and the tenderness of his lips as they touched hers for the first time. But she hadn't expected his grip to cause goosebumps all down her neck, or his tongue to spark a delicious fire in her belly, or the smell of his skin to create tingles all over hers. She felt ignited, keyed up; she had an intense, burning energy that she had never felt before. She gave a little shiver that was nothing to do with the crisp October night. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They walked in silence, lost in their own thoughts, until they reached Denmark Place. As they rounded the corner and approached the entrance, Strike experienced his first pang of doubt; what if she'd wanted to go home? He hadn't asked her about bringing her here. It had simply seemed the most appropriate place: a shared space, neutral and convenient. His flat being above, he told himself, was only a coincidence. He released Robin's arm to extract his keys, and glanced sideways at her. She smiled, shy but content, and he felt better.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ten minutes later, Robin found herself sitting on the sofa in the outer office with a glass of vodka and tonic in her hand. Strike was in Pat's computer chair, wheeled out so that he could sit in front of the desk, and about six inches from Robin's bare knee. The office around her, unexceptional in nature and rendered mundane by five years of familiarity, felt suddenly exciting. Strike had locked and bolted the door. Her new heated energy kept sending shivers of awareness through her. He was so close, and so </span>
  <em>
    <span>male</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and she wanted nothing more than to continue where they had left off in the glittering surroundings of the Rivoli bar. She felt unable to make the first move, so she sat, sipping her drink, willing him towards her with long, imploring glances.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike was waiting. He had reckoned, as they left the Ritz, that Robin would need another half hour, and perhaps one more drink, to properly consider the implications of what (he hoped) was about to happen. He felt he ought to give her that. Having shed all his own misgivings in favour of reckless abandon, and finally giving in to what he had wanted so keenly for so many years, he wanted to be certain that she was fully on board with the direction they were taking. Yet she was looking at him with unmistakable invitation, and his resolve was crumbling. He was telling himself to wait, just five more minutes, when she spoke.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What are you thinking, Cormoran?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike noted the return to his first name, and he understood the significance: this was no time for jokes, for light and easy banter, for teasing or flirting or tiptoeing around each other. He put his empty glass down on the desk with a soft thud, went to his knees in front of her, and answered her question the best way he knew how: he took her face in his hands and kissed her.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Surprises</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Chapter 3</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Some nights I dreamed he'd written me, the</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>bed</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>a page beneath his writer's hands.</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Carol Ann Duffy, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Anne Hathaway</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin tasted better than Strike remembered from the bar; her mouth was open, inviting, and his tongue slipped inside to caress hers. She responded with an enthusiasm that made his chest ache. He inched ever closer to her, and deepened the kiss. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was nobody around, and the door was bolted. With him kneeling, and her sitting, the partners were on a level with each other. Strike's fingers skimmed through Robin's red-gold hair, brushed across her collarbone, trailed down her spine, and came to rest on her hips, kneading gently. Everywhere he touched her burned in the most astonishing way; she felt alive, free and desirable. She raised her hands to his chest, feeling the spring of his chest hair underneath his crisp, white shirt and wishing he had taken the shirt off along with the jacket that was slung over the arm of the sofa. She had a sudden desire to run her nails along his bare chest; she groaned in anticipation of the sound he might make, and kissed him all the more forcefully.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The sound of Robin's carnal groan was enough to tip Strike over the edge of reason; he thought he might go insane with wanting her. He pushed forwards with his body, angling her sideways and dropping one hand behind her back, poised to guide her back across the leatherette sofa. In position, his intention made clear, he looked directly into her eyes, his gaze an unspoken question. Robin understood his pause, and as grateful as she was for it, she was impatient with it too. "Yes. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes,"</span>
  </em>
  <span> she said emphatically, hands grasping for purchase on his shirt and pulling him on top of her. They tumbled back onto the sofa, bodies and mouths pressed together.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Frantic now, heart racing, Robin redoubled her grip on the fistfuls of Strike's shirt she held in both hands. His mouth stilled and he pulled away slightly, searching her face. She looked at him for a beat, and then wrenched her fists apart. His shirt ripped open, scattering the buttons across the office; one hit the filing cabinet with a metallic clang. Strike growled and took her mouth with more force, demanding and hard. He loved her lack of restraint and he responded with equal wantonness, grinding his hips and pinning her to the sofa.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike paused momentarily, panting, to brush Robin's hair from her forehead, fingers brushing lightly over her temple, and then moved his mouth downwards. He explored her neck with aching slowness, kissing his way from earlobe to collarbone and back again while Robin whimpered quietly underneath him. He thought he'd never heard a more erotic sound. He continued down to the neckline of her dress, and looked up at her face once more, checking in on her expression. Her eyes were closed, her head tipped back, her lips parted. Her breathing was a heady mixture of disjointed gasps and moans, and she writhed beneath him, her hands raking across his chest. He didn't want to interrupt her reverie, but it was taking all his self control not to rip the clinging blue dress right off her. He fumbled around her back, trying and failing to find the zip between her flesh and the fake leather of the sofa she was pressed into, and gave in; with a quick twist, he scooped Robin into his arms, sat back on the sofa, and pulled her onto his lap. His hands found what they were looking for and eased the zip down its track, looking into Robin's eyes all the while.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin was on fire. Every inch of her skin seemed to smoulder; she had long forgotten her embarrassment at the helpless mewling noises she was making without volition. She hadn't known she could feel this way, or that Strike would kiss her like this: desperately, feverishly, like he'd been starved of her. Now she sat atop him, and he was gazing reverently into her eyes, silently asking permission yet again. While she was mildly frustrated with this, a bigger part of her was flooded with warmth at the knowledge that he cared; he'd listened to her, and he respected her, </span>
  <em>
    <span>and he was touching her… </span>
  </em>
  <span>She knew she wouldn't bear it if he stopped.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin leant slightly forward and pulled the loosened dress from her arms, pushing the fabric down to her waist. Strike sucked in a sharp breath as her breasts were bared to him; she hadn't been wearing a bra, and he looked up, surprised. She was watching his face, and she laughed at his expression. Strike smiled ruefully, aware that his reaction had been noted.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Robin Ellacott, you are full of surprises," he said, leaning up to kiss her smiling mouth. He shifted them both slightly so that they could manoeuvre more easily, and Robin wriggled out of her dress, letting it fall to the floor. She pulled his ruined shirt from his shoulders, discarding it with her dress, and her hands moved down to undo his trousers. Strike marvelled at her boldness but wasn't entirely surprised by it. He had found Matthew staid and dull on the few occasions they had met, and Strike figured that these traits would stretch to other areas of his life than his predictable yen for an Audi A3 and a house in Holland Park Avenue. Strike's pride was stoked by the obvious fact that he was making Robin feel things she certainly hadn't felt in a long time, if ever. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then hot blood filled his brain as Robin took him in her mouth; on her knees before him, she was a vision beyond his wildest dreams. Growling softly, desperate to touch but unable to reach, he stroked her silky hair. He tried to resist grabbing it, but she flicked her tongue and his hands convulsed, entwining themselves and pulling gently as her mouth moved around him. She moaned, giddy with desire, and Strike could wait no longer: he pulled her up onto his lap again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin basked in Strike's obvious want for her and his unapologetic taking of what he needed; her very skin was electrified, and she quivered in anticipation. His hands roamed across her flesh, leaving goosebumps and longing behind. His fingers were soft as they danced over her underwear, trailing circles lower and lower, until he brushed one forefinger over the damp fabric covering her entrance. Robin's body jolted as searing pleasure shot through her; she wondered how long she could wait, and whether she might go crazy in the meantime. Strike took her mouth, riding the edge of tenderness and aggression, and she moaned a garbled version of his name that told him unequivocally that she wanted him to take the rest of her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The sofa creaked beneath them as Strike lifted Robin by her hips, allowing her to slide her underwear away. He whispered her name, and for a second or two their eyes locked together. He felt a wave of nervousness as he looked at her, but she had a raw, determined look in her eye; she was sexier than ever. With a sudden sinking feeling, Strike hesitated; he had just realised he had no condoms in the office. But she smiled slightly, shook her head, and muttered, "pill." Without further thought, Strike kicked off his trousers and boxers, grasped her hips, and slid her down on top of him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin gasped as Strike entered her, relishing the delicious fullness, closing her eyes to the rush of vulnerability she felt. "Fuck, Robin," he hissed, hands pressing down possessively on her thighs. Robin's mouth was a circle, open in wonder, and he watched a surge of pure pleasure touch her face as he rolled his hips, allowing himself even further inside. She was snug and scorching hot, and sweat dotted his forehead as he savoured the feel of her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin rocked her hips, grabbing his hair in both hands, tugging his head back for access to his mouth. She kissed him like she could eat him alive, the taste of him ramping up her desire to fever pitch. He circled his hips upward, setting a rhythm in time with her frantic gasps, and every thrust sent bolts of electricity through her. The wet heat of his mouth encircled her nipple and she might have sobbed; she lost all sense as he pushed up into her, his hands and mouth everywhere.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Oh God, Cormoran," she whispered, and Strike experienced a powerful rush of pleasure when she said his name. He felt her muscles tense and her breathing quicken. With one arm banded around her back, fingers splayed across her ribcage, he reached lower with the other hand, caressing in tight circles until he heard tiny moans with every breath. He sucked hard on her nipple and she threw her head right back; he had never seen anything so beautiful. He groaned and increased the pace. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin was alive with heat and sensation: she was locked in his arms, unable to do anything but feel everything he was giving to her. Flashes of pleasure were sparking inside her with every hard thrust. She knew she was panting, desperate, and she begged him over and again not to stop. His hands touching her, his tongue on her nipple… She detonated with a guttural cry, her body falling forwards against his heaving chest. Strike held her close with both hands, buried his face in her hair, and found his release inside her.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Declaration</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Chapter 4</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>The rock cries out today, you may stand on me,</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>But do not hide your face.</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maya Angelou, </span>
  <em>
    <span>On The Pulse Of Morning</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It took a long time for them to move. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Robin started to shiver for reasons more mundane, she eased herself off Strike's lap, reaching for her dress. He moved too, grabbing boxers and trousers and dressing quickly. Robin realised with a faint start that he had never removed his prosthesis, and she wondered whether it had caused him any pain or discomfort. He seemed to be moving around with ease, though, and she busied herself with restoring her appearance. She pulled on her dress, facing away from Strike, embarrassed that he now knew that her chest was bare underneath the silky fabric.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Underneath her glowing satisfaction, Robin was again starting to feel nervous. While she thought she'd seen admiration and even adoration in his eyes while he touched her and kissed her, he'd never told her what he felt for her; he hadn't said that he loved her or even that he was interested in a relationship. She wasn't expecting any grand declaration; she wasn't stupid. Strike had told her often enough that he was effectively a loner: grumpy, immovable, and disinclined to commitment. Nevertheless, she would have been glad to know that there was a possibility of </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span>; of a connection stronger than friendship. But perhaps he thought of the night as a mere handshake: a functional release of sexual tension, a tryst that had served its purpose and could now be brushed aside.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin would have been surprised to learn that Strike's thoughts weren't as brusque as she imagined. He was picturing Saturday night in the Tottenham, Christmas in Cornwall, and even a summer holiday somewhere in Europe; his imagination threw possibility after possibility at him, images bursting into his mind before he could temper or stop them. Intertwined with these visions were images that would forever be seared into his brain: Robin ripping his shirt apart; Robin's face when he had first sucked her nipple; Robin's orgasm crashing through her. He had no regrets about what had just happened and no qualms about continuing to run the business with Robin despite his new intimate knowledge of her, although, admittedly, it still didn't feel entirely real. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin still had her back to him. He walked towards her, making sure she could hear his footsteps, and came to a halt just behind her. She became quite still, but didn't turn around.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Do you need a hand?" he said quietly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yes, please. My zip," she replied, her voice hoarse.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike stepped closer and took hold of the zip, sliding it upwards until the dress was once more hugging Robin's curves. There was a small metal hook at the top of the zip, and he thought it must go into the loop on the other side; slowly, he reattached the fastening. He could smell Robin's new perfume on her skin. He lifted her hair from her back, where it had become trapped underneath the straps of her dress, and let it drape again over one shoulder, leaving the side of her neck bare. With the errant thought that he might be playing with fire, he dropped a kiss just under her ear.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin's eyes closed as Strike's lips touched her skin; tingles effused from the spot. She took a deep breath, turned around, and looked him in the eye, daring him to say that this was just a bit of fun, and he didn't think they should be getting into anything serious. They both spoke at once.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Cormoran, you don't - "</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Robin - "</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They broke off, smiling. "You go," said Robin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You're absolutely bloody gorgeous," said Strike, his eyes glowing. Robin blushed profusely at his words, far more so than she had done when she was destroying his clothes, or when she was wriggling her naked body out of her own. Strike grinned at the difference. Now that she was dressed again, she had resumed her usual demure nature. It seemed that passion had unveiled a new Robin, a bold and almost licentious Robin, who took what she wanted and made no apology; Strike inexplicably saw this Robin as </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span> Robin, and intended to coax her out as often as possible.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin didn't know what to say; she felt shy. She knew that she was being ridiculous, but the fact that Strike was only her second sexual partner had not escaped her, and she knew that he had far more experience than her. As she scrambled around for something to say, she realised that she hadn't told him anything about how she felt either, and she panicked at the thought that he might interpret her silence as disinterest. Her worries threatening to overwhelm her, she sat down on the desk chair that was usually Pat's, attempting to marshal her feelings into something coherent.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike saw her retreat into the chair and concern furrowed his brow. "Are you okay?" he asked, slowly moving towards the sofa opposite her, and taking a seat. Robin's eyes were wide and Strike cursed inwardly as he assumed she was about to suffer a panic attack. "I'll take you home," he said, trying to offer her safety and reassurance.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>However, that was the last thing Robin wanted. "No!" she replied, shaking her head. "I'm sorry. I really am fine," she said, willing him to believe her. "That was… That was really something else," she ventured, with a small smile.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike let out a visible sigh of relief. "I know," he replied, his answering smile slightly smug. "When will I see you again?" he asked.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Tomorrow, we've got that meeting with -"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"That's not what I meant," Strike replied, tentatively reaching out to touch her cheek, his eyes burning into hers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin felt a rush of joy; her soul seemed to sing.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Morning</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>I had originally planned for this to be finished, but I couldn't resist adding to it. Four more chapters incoming! I really hope you enjoy it.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Spent all day thinking about you</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Spent all night coming to terms with it</b>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The Style Council, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Speak Like A Child</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike awoke on Friday morning and stayed quite still, not opening his eyes. The memories of the previous evening seeped from his dreams into his waking thoughts without any significant change. He wondered what would happen if he cancelled all his appointments in favour of remaining there, just remembering, all morning. The idea was certainly tempting.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Instead he shook the sleep from his mind and began his morning rituals: bathroom, coffee, prosthesis. He had two hours before he had to leave for his first meeting of the day, at which he would be seeing Robin again. He browsed the news sites on his phone, straightened and tidied his little flat, and made brief notes on a couple of his ongoing cases, but he knew he was just spinning out these minor tasks in the hope that they would help him kill the time. He knew he was in trouble when he realised that two hours seemed a very long time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Putting his pen down on the tiny desk and sighing, Strike allowed his attention to rush back to Robin like a magnet he'd finally released from his own restraining grip. She'd been incredible: sexy, bold and enthusiastic. He rated the night as one of the best sexual experiences of his life. Passionate and intense, it had spoken to him in ways that previous encounters had never attained. Her body was beautiful, and he would never forget the image of her on his lap, head thrown back as she climaxed, a look of pure and complete ecstasy on her face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>However, the other sensations he had experienced were more difficult to categorise. He hadn't expected to feel such a profound sense of belonging when their skin touched. He'd been moved when she kissed him; her lips had brought comfort, praise, and trust, and the sure knowledge that she would be by his side for as long as he needed her. It had shaken him to feel so certain; not since Charlotte had he truly felt connected to another person.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Charlotte had never been dependable. She'd left, multiple times; she had used any excuse she could muster to walk out, to sleep alone, to disappear and wait for him to come and chase her. He hadn't been able to rely on their relationship, if that was what it was, because Charlotte had relished the act of keeping him off balance, shifting the goalposts and then admonishing him for not reaching them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He knew that Robin was different. She was loyal to a fault; she'd certainly been loyal to her high school boyfriend for far too long, despite adultery and abundant arguments. She'd returned to work for Strike despite him sacking her and she seemed to harbour no resentment about it, or if she did, she didn't let on. She was free with her time, and generous with her support: she often offered assistance and encouragement even when Strike's pride and gruffness would otherwise repel it. She was almost obstinately kind.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He felt proud of her many accomplishments, none of which he could take even partial credit for; she seemed to flourish best when left to her own imagination. She had extraordinarily good judgement, and he had to trust that whatever reasons she had for wanting him were sound enough to outweigh the obvious drawbacks. He got up from the table and began to pace the flat, thinking. Slowly, he turned the decisions and dilemmas in his mind over to her. If she decided that she didn't want to go any further, he would respect it; he wouldn't like it, but he would not sever professional ties with her again. They would continue working together if it killed him, or until she decided it was time to move on.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>However, if she wanted this… He allowed himself a happy ten minutes of musing on the physical benefits of that possibility. When he finally shook his head and stood, heading to his wardrobe to dress, he realised he only had half an hour before he needed to leave. Perhaps it had been longer than ten minutes, he thought ruefully.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If Robin wanted him, he told himself harshly, it was more than he deserved. She'd forgiven him repeatedly, and while he had also forgiven her for a few things, it seemed that her wrongs were all born of the simple desire to do the job well, and if she was so desperate to prove herself in that regard then that was his fault too. He should have been freer with his praise, and more hands on with her mentoring. She ought to have had no doubt that he valued her over and above anyone he had ever worked with.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike was also well aware that, in his attempts to discourage intimacy between them, he had been more taciturn than was strictly necessary. He told himself that it had to end, now. He wanted Robin to enjoy his company. He especially didn't want her to think that he was only interested in her between the sheets.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He brushed his hand along the clothing hanging in his wardrobe, and tried to make a decision. Usually he would simply pick the closest clean shirt, but today he paused, images flashing through his mind: dinner at the King's Arms; her wedding day in Masham; the housewarming party he had hated. He cautiously reached for a black v-neck t-shirt and dark blue jeans, pulling them on over his prosthesis and then standing again to look in the mirror on the inside of the wardrobe door. He added brown ankle boots, a grey wool scarf, and his black overcoat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Smiling, he muttered sarcastic insults at himself under his breath; it was the longest he had ever deliberated over an outfit. Shaking his head, he breezed out of the flat, slamming the door behind him and pushing everything out of his mind to make room for the woman he was heading towards.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Secrets</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p>
  <b>Maybe you're the same as me</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>We see things they'll never see</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oasis, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Live Forever</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike and Robin had arranged to meet their potential new client at an Ethiopian café close to her flat in Fulham. Shy and seemingly intimated by Strike, the raven-haired woman who hoped to secure their services had balked at the idea of a meeting in the office. Robin had found and suggested the café, hoping its relaxed atmosphere would have a calming effect.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sauntering along the busy road in the morning sun, Strike glimpsed Robin waiting for him, early as usual, by a bus stop outside. He knew that Robin had been planning to drive to their meeting, and he was glad that he wouldn't have to navigate the tube again on their way back to the office.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Morning," he greeted her, raising a large hand. She turned to face him, and her smile was a lightning bolt straight to his chest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Good morning. You're chirpy today," she said, grinning cheekily. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I can't think why. Did you sleep ok?" Strike asked, smirking. He noted her embarrassed smile and knew in that instant that she had dreamed of him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yes, actually," she replied evenly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"All right, Ellacott. Stop flirting with me and let's go and meet this woman. What's her name again?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin laughed, but was glad of the reprieve: they needed to concentrate. Strike lit up as she began to remind him of the brief. "Her name is Helen Brierley, and she wants us to investigate her daughter's disappearance. The daughter is 28 and lives in Hackney. She hasn't called Helen in the last few days, and she's not been seen going in and out of her flat. Helen sounds a bit eccentric, but she says they're close and the daughter's behaviour is out of the ordinary." Robin pulled out her phone and showed Strike a map. "I Googled the daughter's address, and it's here," she said, pointing. "It's very overlooked and if she's genuinely not been seen for a few days, then I'd say she's not there."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah, I agree," said Strike, impressed. "Let's go and see what Mum has to say then, shall we?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He ground out his cigarette and led the way into the small café, whose smiling waitress rushed to greet them as they entered. Having ordered coffee, they headed to a small table at the back, where Helen Brierley was waiting.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Helen was small, slight, and dark; jet black hair fell in a single length to her waist, and she was wearing black from head to toe. Her pale face was illuminated by the harsh strip lighting in the café, and she had a steely glint in her eye that hinted at obsessiveness.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Cormoran Strike," said Strike, holding out a hand. "This is my partner, Robin Ellacott -" they shook hands, "- and I believe you need our help to find your daughter?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin looked sideways at Strike, almost rolling her eyes at his blunt manner. But Helen seemed to go with it, for the moment: she took a deep breath, and began to talk. She rattled out a long story about her daughter's failure to call her for five whole days, and the relative frequency of her calls for the previous five weeks; she explained that the neighbours hadn't admitted to seeing her in the last five days, despite her calling them around four times a day. Strike asked pointed questions throughout, but Robin noticed that they gradually became more generic and less sharp, as though his interest was waning.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Helen seemed at pains to make the detectives understand that her daughter was fragile, kind and naïve. "People will take advantage," she said, "because she's afraid to stick up for herself. She won't tell people to back off. I have to fight her battles for her a lot, and it's not normal, this. She's gone missing, I'm telling you." She stared at Strike, her coffee untouched, apparently unaware of the irony in her words.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike sighed quietly, and put away his notebook and pen.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Mrs Brierley, your daughter is 28 years old, is that right?" Helen nodded warily. "And she lives alone?" Helen nodded again. "Honestly, I think the most likely explanation is that she's shacked up with a boyfriend and she doesn't want you to know," said Strike.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"But why wouldn't she -" Helen began.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Sometimes when something like that is new, it seems safer not to tell anyone," said Robin, in a transparent attempt to soften the blow; Helen glanced at her with narrowed eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Even when you'd be better just shouting it from the rooftops," said Strike, glancing at Robin. She caught his eye and fought the urge to laugh; was he winding her up?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Anyway, we'll look for your daughter if you'd like us to, but I feel that, ethically, we can't tell you where she is if she doesn't want to be found. We can, however, tell you that she's safe and well, assuming that she is and we find her. Does that seem suitable to you?" Strike asked.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Helen seemed flustered and annoyed, as though the conversation hadn't gone the way she'd hoped. "Well, yes, I want to know she's safe. Although I don't know why you couldn't tell me…" she trailed off. "I'll have to think about it," she finished meekly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No problem," said Strike. He handed her a card. "Call us if you want us to go ahead. Thank you for your time, Mrs Brierley," he said, standing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin was caught off guard by the somewhat sudden end to the conversation, and she stood, gave blithe goodbyes to the woman still sitting at the table, and rushed to follow Strike.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Christ. I think I'd go AWOL if my mother was breathing down my neck like that. Let's get out of here," muttered Strike, as Robin fell into step beside him. "I enjoy talking to a nutter as much as the next bloke, but I'm hungry."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Shall we go to the Tottenham?" Robin offered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Sure," replied Strike.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Confrontation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p>
  <b>If there's something you'd like to try</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Ask me, I won't say no</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>How could I?</b>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The Smiths, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ask</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They strolled casually towards the exit, Strike reaching over Robin's head to hold the swinging door open for her as they left. Robin felt oddly touched.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When they reached the Land Rover, Robin pulled open the driver's door without comment and waited for Strike to join her. Strike managed to pull himself into the car and slam the door behind him in one smooth motion, and as he looked at Robin's profile, he thought he could tell what was coming.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin shifted into first gear and pulled away from the kerb. She drove in silence for a few minutes, her eyes darting to her left more often than necessary. She was dying to address the elephant in the room; more than anything she was secretly hoping for a continuation of the open, forthcoming mood of the previous night, before they had returned to the office and their relationship had forever changed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Look, can we talk about what happened last night?" Robin blurted out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike laughed inwardly. Five minutes; she'd done well. "I thought we'd already mentioned it," Strike replied, smiling softly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Well, yes," replied Robin, "but I was hoping for more of a conversation than just innuendos, to be honest."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike experienced a slight sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. "I'm sorry," he said slowly. "I was only being playful. Or, at least, I thought I was. I didn't mean to upset you." He was watching her with a cautious eye.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You haven't upset me, you daft sod," Robin replied, and Strike grinned. "I just want to discuss it properly, when we're not drunk or in front of clients or getting sidetracked. I'd like to know what this - where we stand." She finished on a tremulous note, flushing slightly, but with a determined look in her eye.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Well," began Strike. "What do you want to talk about, specifically?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin looked sideways at him, raising her eyebrows as if she thought he was being obtuse. Strike tried to put himself in her shoes and imagine what she needed from the conversation. He was aware of the need to proceed carefully, so as not to scare her away. She had been clear that the job was her first priority, and he didn't want her to start thinking of 'work partner' and 'romantic partner' as mutually exclusive concepts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"All right," he said, looking away from her, out of the windscreen towards the greying sky. "I enjoyed last night. More than enjoyed it, actually. It was - worth the wait," he said, smiling ruefully when Robin's gaze snapped onto his, aware that she was wondering just how long he'd been waiting. "I'd like to do it again. And I know you enjoyed it too."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin blushed again. "Of course I did. I would do it again in a heartbeat, but…" She tailed off, looking pensive, and Strike felt the sinking feeling once more. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Pull over," he said simply.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin obeyed without conscious thought, pulling into a small layby that she supposed was normally used by lorry drivers. She applied the handbrake and waited, heart thudding. She didn't know what she was doing; she didn't want him to listen to her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Robin, look at me," said Strike. He looked relaxed, and Robin turned to face him. In the small space, he seemed huge; his presence and his scent filled the car. She hadn't wanted distractions; he was distraction enough. It didn't help that she knew exactly what he could do, and he was telling her that he wanted to do it again. Robin took a deep breath.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You don't want to carry on… to keep seeing each other?" Strike asked, matter of fact. Robin wished he would give her a clue as to what he was thinking, but his expression betrayed nothing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I do, but I'm worried. I know the agency means so much to you, and it does to me as well. I don't want things to become awkward. I don't want you to pander to me or flatter me because we're sleeping together. And, you know, you might get bored of me," she said with a small smile. "If I get dumped, I get sacked too."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike could have laughed out loud. "Robin, if you think that any of those things would happen, then you don't know me at all. And I happen to know that you know me better than anyone," he added. "I'm not giving you an easy ride on anything because we're together, and I'm not sacking you if we call things off." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Are we together?" asked Robin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It seems like we're together right now," replied Strike sarcastically.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You know what I mean, Strike," Robin sighed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You tell me," said Strike.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin tried to control the scattered thoughts running around her head. Worries about the agency were quickly being drowned out by other, more immediate musings: she couldn't help noticing the heat in the car, and the fact that Strike's hand was only inches from her knee. She focused on his question; were they together? Is that what she wanted? Despite her fear of revealing too much, Robin was reassured by Strike's relaxed demeanor. He was watching her almost lovingly, at ease, one arm hitched up to rest on the back of the seat. Robin admonished herself silently. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Of course this is what you want.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She looked into Strike's eyes, and had the strange feeling that he'd been with her every step of the way; he knew what she was thinking and what conclusion she'd drawn. He leaned forward slightly, and Robin sucked in a sharp breath. Her gaze was irresistibly drawn to his mouth, and she stared while the seconds passed; Strike watched her, knowing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Robin?" Strike asked softly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yes?" she replied, her voice hoarse.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Do you want me to kiss you?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Honesty</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>And I thought you might be mine</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>In a small world on an exceptionally</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Rainy Tuesday night</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>In the right place and time</b>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Arctic Monkeys, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Knee Socks</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike watched Robin's face, hoping she would give the right answer: the answer he had been longing for since the morning. Robin was quiet, but her breaths were louder than usual. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Cormoran…" she said, and he was helplessly reminded of the previous night.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Tell me. I need to know that you're with me."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I want you to kiss me," Robin answered, and Strike could hear no trace of doubt in her voice. Still he paused.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Please, kiss me," said Robin. Her right hand gripped the steering wheel, her left curled around the base of her seat. She didn't dare move, in case she broke the moment; Strike was looking at her with such an intensity that she felt he was already touching her. She closed her eyes briefly, and when she opened them again, he was marginally closer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Where?" Strike asked, his gaze burning into hers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin's mind flooded with a rush of arousal, and she suddenly understood. He was teasing her, challenging her; she'd never seen this side of him before. Every part of her body ached with the effort of holding still; she wanted to launch herself at him. She told herself to have some dignity, although she was desperate to throw dignity out of the window along with her previous protests.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"My mouth," said Robin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike smiled, a slow, heavy smile that poured out like honey. He slowly moved his gaze down from her eyes to her mouth, and Robin felt a tingle in her lips. She was almost panting, and he hadn't touched her. She waited, wanting, gripping the wheel.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike leaned in slowly and pressed his lips to hers. Though his stubble was rough, his kiss was gentle; he kissed her softly, as though she were precious. Strike's hands came up to rest either side of her ribcage, and Robin sank into his embrace, winding her arms around his neck.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He tasted of tobacco and coffee, and another flavour that was uniquely his: subtle, masculine, and warm. Robin wanted more; she ran her fingers along his scalp and gripped his hair, willing him to move, to open his mouth, to take what he wanted from her without reservation.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What do you want?" Strike asked her, his breathing ragged.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What?" replied Robin, thrown. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike ran his fingers down her spine and back up again, making her shiver. "What do you want?" he asked again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You," Robin answered, breathless. Strike grinned and didn't move; he was going to make her say it. "I want you, you infuriating, cruel man," she gasped. Robin couldn't help it; she laughed too. "I want you!" she yelled playfully, and then squealed as Strike dragged her bodily onto his lap.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Restraint and tenderness were gone; Robin leant sideways and yanked the lever that dropped the seat back. They fell with it, collapsing in a tangle of limbs and red-gold hair. Strike made a gruff noise in his throat and flipped them both around so that he was lying on top of her. He kissed her as he knew she'd wanted him to all along: deep and hard, his tongue exploring. His teeth bit down on her bottom lip and she moaned.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Strike… Cormoran," mumbled Robin, her hands roaming over his broad back, her head tipping back into the seat. She relished the weight of him on top of her, and his fervent mouth on her jawline, kissing and sucking its way down to her collarbone. She thought that he would stop there and return to her lips, but Strike kept going; he kissed his way down to her cleavage, skimmed her curves with his hands, and settled at her waist. He rained light kisses down on the soft skin between her hipbones, trailing sideways across her belly, eliciting goosebumps all the way. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin felt giddy with desire; she melted when his hands brushed down her thighs, and she crumbled completely when he deftly unfastened the button on her jeans, and she realised what he intended to do. He inched her jeans down, revealing her cobalt blue underwear; he hooked his thumbs inside them and pulled them down along with the jeans.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike had forgotten everything that he'd previously worried about. He had forgotten everything but the smell of Robin's skin, and the feel of her firm body, and the rhapsodic expression on her face when he touched her. He felt a pure joy that he wouldn't have been able to put into words, had he been asked to; he only knew that she was sexier than he'd ever imagined, and she was writhing beneath him. She wanted him, and she felt something for him. For the moment, it was enough. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The first caress of his tongue made Robin convulse; her hips jerked upwards and she gripped the edge of the seat. He'd been ready for it, and his mouth never broke contact with her flesh. He hummed lightly, his tongue fluttering over her, and she begged him incoherently. Strike held her in place, his tongue imprisoning her, passion and need in each stroke. Robin's voice was husky, her cheeks aflame; she mumbled his name into the headrest, knowing she was close to falling apart under his ardent mouth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Without breaking contact, Strike slid one finger inside her. Her answering gasp sent a burst of desire straight to his groin, and he groaned as he slowly added a second finger, moving them rhythmically in time with his tongue. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Cormoran, oh God… don't stop</span>
  <em>
    <span>… please," </span>
  </em>
  <span>said Robin, her words breathy and heavy with emotion. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I love to hear you, Robin," said Strike, building the pace of his fingers, his tongue circling fiercely.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Say it again," said Robin, panting, almost delirious.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What?" said Strike, fingers pushing in and out of her, his voice gravelly and deep.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Say my name," she whispered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Robin. My Robin," Strike answered, euphoric. He looked directly into her eyes. "Come for me, Robin," he said quietly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She climaxed with a scream, her hands grabbing his shoulders and her fingers digging in while her body shuddered. She kept her eyes closed, emitting soft moans while Strike carried on kissing her softly, stroking her, waiting for her body to still.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As she drifted back to reality, she realised Strike had pulled her clothes back into position and that he was lying alongside her, looking at her face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You're amazing," said Strike.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I think that's my line," replied Robin quietly, her face blazing.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>A king always returns the favour 😉<br/>Thank you for reading!</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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